Properly
by Verboten Byacolate
Summary: If at first you don't succeed, raise the bar to a new height and try, try again.


I actually wasn't planning on doing anything for Alfred's birthday. Yet here I am. Laziness fail.

* * *

"Have you gone perfectly mental?" England asked, one thick eyebrow twitching skyward. "You're over two hundred years old, for Heaven's sake."

"Like that matters," America responded. "Come on, England, please?"

The Englishman fixed him with a look that clearly said, _You're a moron_. "America. You're not getting a pony for your birthday."

"But--"

"End of story." England leaned back against his pillow once more, lifting the book on his chest into a suitable reading position. When America was silent for a few moments, England peeked out from the side of his thick novel, immediately regretting doing so thereafter. America was pouting.

"You didn't even come to my party," he mumbled, folding his arms over his jacket-clad chest. England could not help but roll his eyes. _Honestly_.

"Do you think I enjoy coming to your parties on... days like these?"_ Right. Because I want to come see join you in celebrating your separation from me. _

"I think you _should_. A party is a party. You could have ignored the reason behind it if you wanted to."

"How could I?" England muttered, hiding his face behind the book once more. Stupid brat, there was absolutely no way he would give him a present for a date that he wished could have been avoided. Just thinking about it made him queasy-- the fireworks, the cheers, the flags, all of it thrown into his face like it was all in good fun to tear at his heart. Curling up with a book in his bed all day seemed like a much less painful way to spend the day than to go to a party themed "I'm glad I'm not yours anymore!"

He heard soft footsteps and out of the corner of his eye, the blue-eyed nation appeared at his bedside. "Hey..." he said, lowering his hands and knees onto the mattress and crawling forward slowly. England tried to ignore him, burying his nose further and further into the book. "Arthur, I..." England's breath caught in his throat. Of the few things that could manipulate England into caring (and that stupid boy knew every single one), using his name was one of them. His _true _name. And those eyes... he wisely chose to keep his own trained on the book. At close range, those eyes could be deadly. _Just say it, you idiot! _"... I still want my present."

England's mind took a second to process this before he drew his arm back to chuck the book at America's idiotic face. The hero reached out like a flash, though, and kept it back, pinning it against the pillow. The book slipped from England's fingers and he stared up at America, absolutely flummoxed. "Wh-what are you..."

"I _know _you've got a present for me," America said, fixing England in that inescapable traps that were his eyes. "You're the kind of person who would get something for me and then throw it in a hole somewhere before you could work up the balls to give it to me."

England gaped at him. "My balls are none of your concern, you _wanker_!" He wriggled to release himself from Alfred's grip, chagrined when his other arm was held down by the larger nation. "Get off of me!

"No. You didn't come to my party, and you didn't give me a present, and I haven't seen you in forever. I wouldn't have minded if you had come over for cake or something, but you didn't. So now I'm here with you, and I'm not leaving until I get something."

"Twit, why would I get you a gift on a date I don't even celebrate?"

"Because you love me."

"Bollocks."

"Yeah? Then why's your face red?"

"Because I can't breathe with your obese body smothering me like this."

America looked hurt. "That's so mean! I'm not fat! And you're trying to change the subject."

"There _is _no subject," England countered exasperatedly. "And there is no present. I shan't reward you for leaving me."

America looked down at his scowling former father figure. Slowly, he relaxed his grip, and England took the opportunity to pull his wrists free. "Say, Arthur." England felt his heart throb again. That little manipulative twat... "Can I have a kiss, then?"

The Brit stared at America as if he'd gone mad. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you didn't get me anything," he said with a logical tone, "and if you don't love me, it shouldn't matter, right? Plus, since I can't have a pony, this will just have to do."

"Y-you can't!" England said. America watched him with those brilliant eyes, nearing his face, and he was so close... ah, England's heart just wasn't prepared for this, beating a painful hole in his chest... he closed his eyes, squeezing the lids so tightly it felt like they might tear...

An exaggerated smooching sound entered his ears, and he felt moist, puckered warmth against his forehead. His eyes flew open and he stared at America, who pulled back grinning, flashing him a thumbs up. "Awesome. Thanks, England!"

_Thanks, he says.  
_

"What on earth was _that_?!"

"Huh?"

"Respond with an intelligent answer!"

"What are you talking about?"

England grabbed America's jacket, yanking him down to eye-level. "You're mad as a hatter if you think that was any sort of decent excuse for a kiss. Idiot!" He glared. "I'm not your mother, so kiss me properly."

America blinked. "Seriously?"

England groaned and yanked him down.

* * *

Snuggled up beside the sleeping idiot (more specifically, held so tightly around the middle that it was a struggle to reach out and turn off the bedside lamp), England silently congratulated himself; as long as he used this new tactic wisely, he would never have to buy America a single gift ever again.


End file.
